


It Would Be Rude Not To

by NineWheels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Diary/Journal, Drunk Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineWheels/pseuds/NineWheels
Summary: A "deleted" scene from 7x12 "Time After Time". Jody hasn't written in a diary since junior high, but something went down between her and Sam Winchester, and she has to say something about it.(Another entry from my girlfriend.)





	It Would Be Rude Not To

Dear Diary.

I haven’t written in a diary since junior high, and anyway, this isn’t a diary, for all that I feel like an 8th grade idiot right now, it’s the back of an empty Burger King bag that I found on the floor of my car. I am sitting in said car, writing this down even though I plan to burn this once I’m finished – I just have to get this out somewhere. Also I need to sober up.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, not in a million years. I hadn’t even thought about it. I mean, sure, he’s cute. You’d have to be dead not to see that. They both are. But Sam and his brother…they were like Bobby’s kids. And Bobby was like my…well, I don’t know what Bobby was. Don’t know what he could have been. It’s not like I knew him all that well. All I know about that is that he’s gone, and it hurts. I know that. And however much it hurts me, that’s nothing compared to the hurt those boys are going through. I know that too.

And I think it was my fault, when you get down to it. I mean, we were doing research, on opposite sides of the room, and I was the one who not only found the bottle of Johnnie Walker, but had the bright idea that we should drink it. Why did I even say that? Did I really think Bobby would want us to? Pretty sure Bobby never imagined me and Sam as drinking buddies, no matter the circumstances. If there’s an afterlife, I hope Bobby was busy watching Heavenly football or something, and not paying attention to anything that was going on down here.

Anyway, I found the whiskey and said we should drink it. And Sam said that it would be rude not to (and what was he thinking? Did he answer too quickly? Was there a tone? Dammit Jody, stop overthinking this), and closed the laptop. I pulled off my boots, got as comfortable as I could on the floor, he came over to sit beside me, I opened the bottle, and we drank – just like Bobby would have wanted. Right?

There weren’t any glasses in this broken-down house the boys were using as a base of operations, so we passed the bottle back and forth, not saying much. I’m not crazy about Johnnie Walker, it’s all bite and no taste. Half a dozen or so passes, though, and the smoky taste was less harsh, and I remember thinking that making out with this ashtray gets easier the more you do it, and I giggled. Sam looked questioningly at me, and I must have already been drunk enough that this was even funnier, and I started to laugh. Once I started, I couldn’t stop, and it felt really good to laugh – I don’t think I realized how much tension I had been holding in. Sam laughed too, and said, “Sheriff Mills, I do believe you’re intoxicated.”

I said, “Shut up, Sam,” and elbowed him in the ribs. I was holding the bottle, and whiskey spilled on my jeans and the back of my hand. I said, “dammit,” and I wiped my hand on Sam’s jeans. 

He said, “Hey, be your own dishrag!” He snatched at the bottle with one hand, missed it (spilling more), and grabbed hold of my whiskey-covered hand with the other. He pressed it against his thigh and held it there. 

I tried to say “I’m not intoxicated, you’re intoxicated.” That is, I tried to say it, but all those syllables got in the way, and I stopped trying to slur, and drank some more. Sam went for the bottle again and got it, drank some more, and put it on the floor – I noticed it was almost empty. How did that happen? I also noticed that he was still holding my hand, and it didn’t seem weird – it seemed nice, actually. Warm hand, and that made me notice the warm rest of him next to me, big and warm and comfortable. He’s a nice kid, I thought. Sweet. And I didn’t always think so, but yes, a nice kid. Bobby would like it if he knew I thought that, and I leaned my head on Sam’s shoulder, and it seemed natural enough that Sam leaned his head on top of mine, his cheek against my hair. Nice. I looked at our hands still together, fingers entwined now, and at his arm where his shirt sleeve was rolled up. I’ve always had a thing for mens’ forearms. I remembered that Bobby had had nice forearms too, I remembered the day I had first noticed – it was that day he had suddenly kissed me. Confusing as hell, that – but I had noticed his forearms that day. I remember that. I sighed. I was really drunk, and my head was doing things.

I’m pretty sure Sam couldn’t have known what I was thinking, but maybe he was thinking of Bobby too, because he sighed too, and then his face did a thing that I felt more than saw, and I turned my face up to his, kind of turning so my cheek was against his cheek, and my other hand went up around his neck as what I meant to be a sort of hug. A nice hug. Warm. Supportive. He hugged back, pressing his cheek to mine, and we stayed that way for a bit, and he smelled nice, and my head tilted down a bit and so did his, and then we were kissing, and I swear to God, it took me almost completely by surprise. I say almost because you’d think that if it had been a TOTAL surprise (to me or to him), either of us would have reacted to it, or stopped, or pulled away. But we didn’t.

Honest to God, Diary, this was nowhere in my head when I suggested we drink that whiskey. It wasn’t. But we were kissing, and I didn’t stop it, and neither did he, and we kept kissing, and it got more and more urgent – wet kisses, soft and hard at the same time, and (I blush to admit it) hot. I tasted the whiskey on his tongue, and I remember thinking, oh, okay, Johnnie Walker isn’t so bad after all. My arm tightened around him, and he let go of my hand, slid his hands under my armpits and lifted me up off the floor (he is very strong), swinging me around so that I was sitting on his lap, kind of straddling him, up on my knees. His arms tightened around me, and my hands went up into his hair, which was soft, and I ran my fingers through it, and something occurred to me and I whispered against his mouth, “Sam.”

He paused, pulled away ever so slightly, as if afraid of a reprimand. “Yeah?”

“We have the same haircut.” Silence that hung there for a second, and then I laughed at the look on his face, which then turned into a smile. He said, “shut up, Jody”, and his lips took mine again, and then it wasn’t funny anymore, and we both meant business. His hands found my breasts through my shirt and my backside through my jeans, and I pulled his shirt open, and my hands were all over him now, like I couldn’t touch him enough. I bit his neck, and he practically purred in my ear. My buttons seemed to melt away, and my shirt fell open under one of his hands as the other crept around and fumbled with the clasp of my bra. Drunk or not, he was still dexterous enough to unhook it after two tries, and I rose up a bit on my knees to bring my breasts closer to his face, and his hands and mouth were all over them. He squeezed my nipples first gently and then less gently, and I gasped. My hips wouldn’t stay still – they rocked me back and forth against first the seam in the denim, and then, when he slid his hand down into my jeans and between my legs, his fingers. I moaned.

It might have been me, it might have been him who actually opened my jeans and was tugging them down (it was probably me, since his fingers were still busy, making tiny circles on my clitoris, then pushing into me two at a time, and his other hand was circling around to clutch my backside – yes, it was me). We broke contact long enough for my jeans to come entirely off, but him stopping for just that long was enough to drive me even crazier (God, it had been so long), and he hadn’t yet gotten his jeans open before I was grabbing at him, reaching around to grasp his backside and pull him close, so I could take him in my mouth.

I didn’t think this then (I couldn’t think anything then), but I think Sean (another person I hope wasn’t watching from the Great Beyond) would have resented how I went at him. It’s not that I didn’t like going down on my husband, but it wasn’t really a priority, and now – Sam Winchester’s cock was in my mouth and I couldn’t get enough of it. It was hot and beautiful and I sucked it, all the way down, and licked it, and swirled my tongue around the tip, and scraped it gently with my teeth. He groaned, and his fingers tangled in my hair, tugging at it just enough, but never pushing my head further down like I remember some of the boys I dated back in the day used to do. I thought he would come in my mouth and I wouldn’t have cared, but he pulled me up to kiss me again, and I pushed him onto his back. I straddled him, and held his cock under me, rubbing my sex up and down on him, thinking to tease – but he pulled me close, shifted his hips, and suddenly was inside me all at once. I let out a little shriek to feel him, throbbing and big, almost painful because it had been so long for me, but the hunger for him overwhelmed anything else and I moved on him, up and down, up and down, while he crushed my breasts in his big hands, sitting up so his lips could stay on mine. I was so close, I was grabbing at his hair and not caring that my knees were going to be bruised, and when he slid his thumb down to finger my clit, I came like an explosion. I could feel my insides clenching down on his cock, squeezing it so very tightly that he groaned too, and wave after wave of orgasm suffused me – I couldn’t stop, I didn’t want to, I thought I might simply burst and die, and that was just fine.

When it finally subsided, I was dizzy and gasping, but he wasn’t finished. He swung me over onto my back, and drove into me again. My insides were still quivering and sensitive from a minute ago, and I’d never been one for multiple orgasms, but I wrapped my legs around him and thrust my hips up and raked his backside with my nails, and thank God the derelict house was kind of isolated, because otherwise I’m pretty sure the neighbors would have heard my cries of oh God oh God oh God, and honestly I didn’t even care. I made these sounds that I had forgotten I could make, and he groaned again as he came, and I held him close for what seemed like a sweet eternity, and I think I drifted off with him still inside me.

I don’t get hangovers, never did, thank goodness – but when I woke up (still drunk, but sober enough to be mortified when I realized where I was, and whose naked sleeping body was entangled with mine) I rushed back into my clothes as quickly as I could – I have no idea where my panties got to, I am not wearing them now because I didn’t want to take the time to search – whispered “coffee” into his ear, and fled, not waiting to find out if he heard me or not. 

I am close to sober now, dear Diary, sober enough to go and actually get coffee, which I will do (first I will burn this, like I said, and then possibly bury the ashes and salt the earth), bring back, and then get back to business of bringing Dean back from the past, and pretend that nothing at all happened and I am not completely embarrassed and that this won’t be awkward at all. I will put on my best Mom Face and Mom Voice and will take this little adventure to my coffin, and I will only ever think of Sam as a Nice Kid. I have to wonder if I’m going to like the taste of Johnnie Walker now, though. Bobby may have wanted us to drink that whiskey, but I am fairly certain that this was even further from his mind than it was from mine or Sam’s – and if I’m wrong about that, well, we are all, indeed, a bunch of idjits.


End file.
